The King's Exodus
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: During Harry Potter's fourth year, Arthur Kirkland-who has nowhere else to go-pays a visit. Alongside him he brings something more dangerous than even Dumbledore could fathom.
1. Rumor Has It

**Prologue **

**Rumor Has It**

With the upcoming Triwizard Tournament, it was a wonder that anything else could be thought of. Yet, a rumor had spread quickly and everyone's ears perked up at the sound, like hounds to a scent.

"It's like a guest teacher," Ron said, munching on a loaf of bread and butter.

"It's not just a guest teacher, Ron," Hermione shook her head, her brown rivulets flowing down her shoulders and shaking with the gesture, "From what I heard he's the most powerful, the wisest, and the most peculiar wizard who ever lived and who ever will live."

"I thought Dumbledore was the most powerful." Ron returned.

Harry watched the two, his eyes resting on Hermione and pressing her to continue. Around them the students clattered with plates and silverware, chattering about this and that, mostly nothing about current events and almost all about teenage gossip. Harry picked at the meat on his plate and set the fork down, resting his elbows on the table and watching Hermione. Hermione was chewing and looked back at Harry, expecting him to speak.

"If he's so powerful why didn't he just off Voldemort?" Harry asked. He wondered. Perhaps if this so-called all powerful man just destroyed Voldemort then he might have his parents still.

Ron winced at the name, and Hermione did as well, lowering her gaze so her short eyelashes fanned out along her cheeks.

"Perhaps he had his own reasons," Hermione said.

"What d'you know about him?" Ron continued.

"The man goes by different names, but I didn't learn about any of them except a rather normal, rather muggle name: Arthur Kirkland. I couldn't find out his age and anything about him except that those he duels don't suffer but it's almost like they've battled a legend, or so. He's very skilled and does not seem to like killing people. I couldn't determine much about him because the text books say next to nothing on him except for a poor mentioning in the sidelines, almost like they're afraid to say something or they can't. What's more, I doubt he'd be coming here. He'd probably want to deal with greater matters than teach at a school."

Harry agreed.

Ron huffed, leaning back. "I suppose we'll just have to wait and see if he does show up."

"Meanwhile," Hermione stood, gathering her things, "I'll try to find more information. Who knows, maybe he could help you Harry. Maybe he could clear things with him." She referred to Harry's godfather: Sirius.

The prospect gleamed in Harry's eyes.

Before Harry could state his opinion, Hermione had already been swallowed by the crowd. Her brown head bobbed in the wave of others, and then vanished into the library.

"So he's like a Merlin, then?" Ron said.

Harry shrugged.

"I think that Fred and George are going to use some potion to enter their name…" Ron launched into his brother's endeavors and the upcoming tournament. Harry's spirits rose and he listened in with greater interest, any prior woes tucked away for a later time.

During this time, Harry took several glances at the head table. The teacher sat, watching the crowd as they ate their dinner, and chatted amongst each other. Moody glowered across the room, his eye revolving and spinning like a planet lost from orbit, and landing on Harry more than enough times. As he did, his jowls quivered. He placed his hand on the table and with the other scratched at his missing chunk of nose, a dusty color. At the centre Dumbledore, his beard long and white as sea foam glistening in the golden lights of candles also found his gaze wandering towards Harry. The other teachers didn't seem to care and continued on. Snape, resembling a crow with half his feather disheveled and his voice coarse of yells ate quietly, examining the Slytherin table.

Did they know of the visitor? Or was it a vague rumor formed by the students in the havoc? Hermione had mentioned such a man existed, but in such a fragmentary haze that he may as well be an urban legend. He may as well still live in a time when the country was ruled by towering green pines and the people in stone houses forged off it, having adventures through the dense forest and drinking from the running brooks.

"Are you listening?" Ron said.

Harry looked back at him, blinking, and nodding. He adjusted his glasses although they weren't in need of such an auxiliary motion. Overhead the moon hung like a disk of gold.

"I think I'll go to bed. I'll fall asleep in my plate." Harry left the seat and Ron followed. They walked back to their rooms, yawning occasionally and passing other students. Their robes swished at their feet and the stairs shifted, grinding like old stones passed together.

"Good night, Harry."

"Good night."

* * *

_I do not own Harry Potter nor Hetalia_

_I hope you enjoy. _


	2. Nowhere to Go

**1. **

**Nowhere to Go**

"Ah, yes, well I'm dreadfully sorry about that." The man said, nodding his head several times. His red lips pursed and his watery eyes attempted to focus on Arthur in front of him but slid away with Arthur's sheer glare.

"I don't need an apology I need a home." Arthur said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Behind him his robes dried, each droplet vanishing under a spell he cast upon entering. On the desk, cluttered with quills and parchments, was a sheet of paper with Arthur's eviction note given a day prior to the house being demolished by a Deatheater rampage nearly fifteen years before.

"Well, your house can't be rebuilt very easily. It's terribly old, archaic even." The man continued, scratching his neck. His wand stuck out from his sleeve, gnarled at the tip.

"What do you expect I do now?" Arthur asked.

"Find someone to go to."

And that is when Arthur decided he should contact some old friends.

After visiting the office, Arthur collected his coat and went back outside. The rain continued to pour, streaming in the streets. The autumnal rain brought a sense of peace to Arthur prior, but now it stormed grief on his poor heart.

He decided to go to a muggle in nearby. He walked down the cobbled sidewalks, glancing up at the tall apartments. In one window a cat sat, glaring out into the wet streets. Its eyes glowed like gem stones on its black fur. Arthur watched it for a moment, until it slunk away. Arthur dug his hands into his pockets and walked on.

Eventually he reached a street lined with shops and people under the protection of roofs having coffee or eating out. Arthur discovered an inn, its wooden sign flapping in the wind, labeled GOOD OLD INN. Arthur entered it, ducking into the warmth and stomping his feet on the welcome mat. Before him a woman sat at the desk, scribbling down notes. Tourists lounged in the lobby, watching the rain and looking through maps to decide where to go next. Arthur took off his jacket, checking to see that his wand was well hidden in his coat, and approached the front.

The woman looked up with a smile.

"Hello, sir."

"A room, please," Arthur said, sniffing.

She examined his appearance briefly before locating a vacant room. Arthur's dust-colored hair stuck to his face and to his prominent eyebrows. His mouth was ajar and he stood at an angle, being bandy-legged and lacking in height. He was stocky, but it suited his height and, in a way, his brevity.

"Here you are, sir, I hope you have a nice day."

Arthur took the gold-painted key and went up the stairs. He tracked drops of water in his wake.

Once settled in the room, he took a parchment and began to write.

_Dear Albus,_

_I hate to be a bother at this time, especially as your school will be hosting the tournament, but I must ask you a favor. Do you know where one could stay? I can rent an apartment, but I need to be integrated back into the Wizarding World, I hope you understand. I can explain my motives at a later time if you wish to know what they are. If you are unable to help me, please don't worry yourself old friend. I can manage, but again I'm in a bind. _

_Yours Truly,_

_A.K. _

Arthur applied his initials with great care, smiling calmly to himself.

The following day, after he had sent the letter via owl, he received a reply. He sat on the desk chair the inn provided, leaning his now dry stocking feet on the table and dipping a biscuit into tea.

The owl fluttered into the room, mean eyed and with attractively large eyes. It pecked at Arthur's hair. He petted it and took the letter, allowing it a treat before it went back outside. The rain had ceased but in the air the moistness hung like a curtain. People roamed beneath his window, chatting, and taking pictures of the scenery.

Arthur unfolded the letter and began to read with growing glee.

_Arthur, _

_I am glad to hear that you have returned to our world. I hope you can explain all of this, because I do have a place for you to stay right here in the castle. If you have come for the very reason I presume moves you, then Hogwarts will be the safest place for you to stay. It will not be a burden on me and, I was wondering if you could provide a lesson for the students as reimbursement for this. Come as soon as you can. _

The signature at the bottom, written finely, as though it had been made from silk, was faded at the end. Arthur tucked the letter away. He doubted he could argue Dumbledore out of it, but he had no choice and this was the most welcoming of invitations he could have received. How it will play out later is another story. Arthur wanted something quick to settle down in until he can gather enough ability to move on.

After much inner debate, Arthur decided that he would leave that night.

Until then he rested on the bed until his stomach started to growl. He ate quietly at a restaurant and returned, taking his wand from the folds of his coat, and holding it between his fingers. It had been a long time since he preformed any major spells with it. He could do simple spells well enough.

He decided to practice on the chairs and on the bed, and once he ascertained how well he could do those, he moved on to silencing the room, so no sound could escape as though a barrier had been established around the room, a glass case, and preformed the louder spells.

The room was painted red, purple, blue, yellow, and green. He grinned as the spells easily flowed through his veins. He cast the patronus spell, creating a rabbit. It glowed ethereal, a silvery ghost, a misty apparition, and leaped from one imaginary tuft of grass to another, trailing light behind it like a comet, casting its light on the room like the glow from a river. He ceased creating it and it vanished, into dust particles, and then to nothing.

In the corner he spotted a spider crawling, its spindly legs stretched out to the desk chair.

Arthur scowled. "What a filthy place." He pointed his wand at the spider.

"_Crucio_," he whispered.

It stopped, stunned, and the curled up, writhing in agony. Its miniscule muscle rippling and then, Arthur let it go. It dropped, agonized. Once it had regained some of its energy, Arthur smothered it with the toe of his shoe.


	3. Lost Space

**3. **

**Lost Space**

Hermione remained in the library for lengthy periods of time, studying, helping Harry, and, when she could, see if she could discover something about the strange man who came several weeks into school.

She had seen him. The books she read proved to be barren of fruit, no information given, nothing but a bare mentioning of his name or a poor picture of him. There was one picture, however, that caught her attention. It was in one of the older books, dusty, and smelling sweetly of age. The old tome in her hands weighed nearly half her body mass, but she was hardly troubled in placing it upon the table. She plucked it open and shifted to a page in the middle. There, as if finding her by chance, was an ink drawing of a man labeled _A.K_. The man stood alone, dressed in dark robes. His face was hidden in sketchy shadow and his hands moving constantly, fumbling with a wand, and his eyes glowering up at Hermione, incessantly annoyed at something just between him and her. She watched him, wondering what it may say. The next page, where penned in delicate and tight script, would have described him had not the information been executed with spells and spills and scratches. Nothing but several words such as _the _or _is _or _whom _was visible. All the rest was lost for good. She kept note of it and later told Harry and Ron.

"That's strange," Harry said.

"If they took the time to scratch it out something important or forbidden should have been written in there." Ron added thoughtfully.

"Come to think of it, I haven't actually seen the man fully yet." Hermione paused, looking around the hall. Students bent over their studying filled the scene, candles floating overhead, and the night tumbling down outside like spilled paint. Stars speckled the sky, peering timidly through the windows. Whispers and the scratching of quills pierced the otherwise silent room. Teachers examined the perimeter like stalking birds of prey. There was no sign of Arthur.

The students knew for certain that he was there in the castle, for they had seen him when he arrived. They sat outside by the lake, enjoying the final warmth of summer, and spotted a man entering the vicinity. He stood in the distance speaking with several professors, nodding his head full of hair the color of parched wheat and his hands deep within the folds of his robes. Next to the teachers he was short in stature and looked nothing more than a harmless man who could be a banker or accountant.

"He doesn't look like the most powerful wizard of all time," several students muttered.

"Yeah, he hasn't even got a beard!"

"He's short, too."

Harry thought of the man's arrival and noticed something there, lodged in his memory like a hard stone. When he recalled Arthur's shape, there distinctly hovered an atmosphere of power than enlisted not fear but simple awe, similar to Dumbledore but far more subtle and, in a way, more menacing.

"We were told that we'd see him in small groups. I think we are going together, all of Gryffindor, this Thursday night." Hermione reminded them, curiosity gleaming in her eyes, almost wicked.

"You look far too excited, Hermione." Ron shrunk back.

"Oh, don't you kid yourself!" Hermione rounded on him, her eyes sparkling even more and her lips parted. "We are going to be taught by the most powerful wizard! It's like getting a private lesson from Dumbledore!"

"Like when Lupin taught me the patronus spell…" Harry muttered, looking back and forth from one of them to the other, delighted to find Hermione so excited and Ron so withdrawn, for a change.

"Yes, exactly so! Can you imagine what we can learn? This is a rare opportunity, Ron, and if you think that it's just another old lesson then suite yourself, but don't bother me about it." Hermione finished with a heavy silence, returning to her work and scratching out vigorous notes, finishing the essay for Snape, and practicing a charm.

Quite some distance away, Arthur stood at the window of his room. It was more of a dungeon with a slit in the wall to show the night, ending early as the earth tilted away from the sun. A single four-poster bed stood in one corner, tables all around, bottles of ink here, quills there, a cauldron emitting a steady puff of steam in the other corner, and a dresser to hold his meager belongings decorated his room. Arthur leaned against the sill, resting his chin upon his palm, and shutting his eyes halfway, so semicircles of green and black appeared to any onlooker. He played with his wand with the other hand, creating wispy white apparitions of nymphs and naiads and pretty creatures dancing about a flame and tossing their heads back in silent laughter. Raising his wand the phantoms were snuffed out like the flame of a candle. Arthur set his wand down and created another one, to amuse himself with the archaic but little known spell. His spells were rooted in his blood like an old oak's to the earth, so deeply embedded that he need not even think of a spell and the magic springs to his wand, his oldest and dearest friend forged of an old man with a beard so long it put Dumbledore's to shame constantly trailing behind him.

He fondly remembered it. He was meandering through the forests, dense and lush, touching rocks and causing them to glow, or summoning spirits, and causing disruption in the centaurs who had no choice but to obey to the freckled, curious child playing around them as England grew to be. The old man beckoned him over, seeing his magic shoot from his fingers long before the four founders were even to open their eyes once to the world. He leaned against his shack, built of stone and thatched with straw. To the boy so young it appeared to be so big and mysterious. Smoke billowed from within and the man's eyes glowed brightly, drawing his fingers through his beard solemnly.

"Boy, come forth."

"Yes, sir." Arthur timidly ventured forwards.

"Where are you parents?"

"I haven't none to speak of."

"Why, were you born of the very dirt?"

"Mayhaps, sir."

The old man nodded pensively, continuing to drag his fingers through the snowy white beard, drawing behind it hollows, pockets big enough from his thick and calloused fingers. "You are a special boy."

"Am I, sir?"

"Yes."

Arthur did not know how to reply. He placed his small fists in his tangled mess of hair and dug his fingers in, waiting for the sir to continue speaking.

"Do you have a wand?"

"A what?"

"A wand that can channel your energies."

"No, sir."

The man bent over, the buttons of his spine rippling beneath the coarse fabric, and his picked up a staff longer than he and reminiscent of a blade. He placed it on the ground, tapped twice, and from it sprang a flower quite lovely and large.

"I want one of those," Arthur gawked.

"You certainly will receive one, then."

As Arthur of the Round table followed Merlin devoutly, Arthur was then subject to the old man's teachings, toning his powers that were already so strong, strong as the revenge that soiled Hamlet's heart or darkness in Macbeth's, Arthur became better and better. And once the old man died much afterwards after Arthur had been acquainted with Hamlet and after the crusades had long set sail. Arthur set him to rest, letting his old bones become fantastical memories.

Arthur thought of all this in the room in Hogwarts, many years later, and seemed to sag with the weight of his years piling to his back.

A light tapping sounded from the door.

"Come in."

The door opened and Arthur turned to greet the visitor. Dumbledore smiled sagely at him his spectacles glimmering in the candle light.

"Tomorrow you start your first lessons. Are you prepared?"

"Yes," Arthur nodded.

"What will you be teaching them, if I may ask?" Dumbledore placed the tips of his slender fingers together.

"Nothing spectacular, I'm afraid. I can't give away all my secrets. I couldn't give them away during the war. All I could do then was leave my wand secured and sling a gun on my back. But, I will teach them some skills that most of the world has forgotten. Then I could teach some parlor tricks, to have a showy event."

Dumbledore nodded, his robes swishing as he moved closer.

Arthur regarded him closely, feeling quite find of the man who had, at an early age, become a dear friend. Arthur had even taken the liberty of insinuating a few secrets.

"Will you, by chance, be taking Harry Potter out and giving him some particular advice?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

Arthur gazed at him for a long time.

Finally, he spoke.

"No."

"I understand, I know you don't want to mess with fate and the future—"

"But his friend, that Granger girl, I think I will teach something. She's sharp. I like intelligent people like her."

"Yes, she's the best in her class," Dumbledore agreed proudly.

"But what you said of the future. I don't believe I have revealed to you my true identity, have you?"

"Not a word has been spoken, unless you count your inability to age. And I do believe you'll keep it hidden forever."

Arthur shook his head. "I may at one point. I know what will happen in the future like you may remember a dream upon waking up. It's unclear, hazy. It comes in fragments and slowly slips away. I can remember the past very well, of course, but when I set my mind forth into the metaphysical, the what has not happened yet, then I begin to lose myself and I feel quite sick because I can sense my death is awaiting me. It's inevitable that it will happen. Eventually I, too, will fall. I doubt a blade shall meet my neck, but I would not be surprised if it were to occur. Furthermore, the near future becomes more strikingly clear as we step into it. I know what will become of Harry and his friends, and of who will perish along the way and who will shed a thousand tears and who will be unable to move on and will shatter before they can reach the final step, bowing before death as he casts his blade upon them. I can hear Harry's yells echoing in my mind and I can feel the anguish rippling through his veins. What I cannot say is that if I interfere with him that it can help. In times of distress what is a few words of a haggard old man? You rely on what you know, and not what a master has taught you unless you dig deep enough to hit the well. I'll be nothing but a lost memory to him. But his friend will recall me and when the time comes, maybe not in a battle and maybe not in the climax of her life, but in some distant future she'll recall my words and use them. It will not be wasted and will not be tampering with time."

Dumbledore chose silence.

Arthur turned back over his shoulder and looked one last time at the night before going forth and pulling his sleeve up to show Dumbledore. A scar went from his elbow to his wrist, gnarled and hairless.

"That was in the past, Arthur," Dumbledore said kindly.

"You forgive me?" words so quietly spoken, as if they may break the budding hope which had hardly been born.

"You know me well enough."

"I had no choice. It stings and burns every once in a while, but sometimes I forget. It's like when I succumbed before. I am the clashing of the antithesis and the thesis, but I do not become the synthesis but the deformed child of both that is disregarded for I am as imperfect as humans."

"You're very poetic this night, Arthur." Dumbledore mused, and turned away. He had not batted an eye at the Dark Mark on Arthur's arm.

* * *

_Thank you very much for the reviews!_

_Several notes: Merlin and Arthur are the story of days yonder about the wizard who helps a boy take the throne, a very familiar story I'm sure. Hamlet and Macbeth are two of Shakespeare's plays, tragedies to be sure, and they deal with a mortal flaw. If you are familiar with them then you should be able to see the foreshadowing. And finally "thesis", "antithesis", and "synthesis" are some of Hegel's philosophies on history; that it acts in those three phrases accordingly: the idea of the majority, the idea against it, and the clashing of the two. And now you know some trivia! _


	4. Ich muss, ich muss

**5.**

**Ich muss, ich muss**

The students swarmed in the hall, a quarter of the total, all buzzing with excitement. Among this group the Slytherins gazed towards the center, where they were told a "guest professor" would be. Their sharp, sly eyes flitted from corner to corner, calling their friends together and wondering just what this new teacher could teach them. Some were doubtful, others excited, and still others uninterested.

Draco Malfoy stifled a yawn. He elbowed the student next to him and rolled his eyes. "They can't find good enough professors so they have to get someone from outside, don't they?" He sneered.

The student gave him a false grin and returned to his conversation which majorly centered about his wealth and the three countries he would be cruising in the upcoming summer. Draco sniffed to regain dignity and returned to his group, mocking the event quite loudly at times.

Greens mixed with blacks clashed beneath Arthur like a turbulent, dark sea. He turned to look at the Head of the House, Snape, bemusedly.

"What house were you in?" Snape asked quietly, without curiosity, but simply trying to kill off the time before they had to start on the strict schedule.

"I was not in any house, but I suppose they could have put me in any." Arthur returned with the same goal.

"What house would you have chosen?"

"I cannot say."

Snape turned, his sharp nose throwing a thick shadow across his face, masking his other eye. His greasy black hair fell like a curtain, hardly moving even with the most violent of head rotations. The candles behind them flickered.

"I believe you were taller when I saw you last." He said.

Arthur kept his hands behind his back, r0cking slightly at his heels. "Much can happen since then."

"We have time."

"It was not an accident. And we do not have that much time, for the matter." Arthur stepped forwards, his robes shimmering in the light. He drew his wand from the folds at his front and held it aloft, casting a glowing green aura from the tip that attracted all the students, their eyes bound towards him and then yonder where he then conducted a lengthy monologue about how honored he was for being there and how wonderful it was to return to Hogwarts. He said not a word of his personal life save for his name said briefly. The students, now quite enraptured, including Draco, watched him. Snape did as well, his brows raised in growing curiosity.

Arthur muttered aloud a spell and with it casted his fiery naiads. They began as small, sprightly beings that rushed through the crowds, their gowns of light fluttering in their wake and their small feet brushing the floor. As they passed, the students' faced lit up with sheer delight and wonder, as though they were children first exposed to the gorgeousness of light and sound. The naiads, nymphs, faeries, and the like evaporated when Arthur uttered another incomprehensible spell. With growing sorrow, the ghosts burst into glittering flames and at once the students held their hands out so they might catch the falling stars, but the light vanished once it brushed their skin.

Once gone, as well, the students fell back to ill-amused tempers. None seemed to have much recollection of the wonder they faced prior. They steadily examined Arthur for answers.

"Deceit, students of Salazar, deceit is what I will be teaching you this evening. As you noticed, these figures disappeared along with your bewilderment. I will teach you how to make the small kind. It's a simple spell you can use to distract an enemy, to entertain young children, or for whatever purpose else you wish. You see, magic is not solely for comfort or for fighting, it can be used for beauty. That is what I want this house to understand above all else." Arthur cleared his throat and raised his wand once again, "And, as you hone this skill, you will find that you can make these as well."

With another loudly spoken spell Arthur's wand began to ooze silky white light. It formed into a pile which rose steadily and from it, after an awed wait when the candlelight seemed to fade and the room darkened except for the figure appearing before them, a female human stood. She seemed to be made from the finest stardust, wrapped in a silky dress, her eyes of no color, and her hair floating about her. She looked at the students, to some as a temptress to others a mother and to others a sister. Her lips parted and she grinned. She held her hands forth in a cupped motion, all sound sucked away, and Arthur placed his wand in her palms, and from it sprung a flower to grandiose and beautiful some gasps erupted from the audience.

Arthur took a deep breath, his face paling with the effort of the spell, and whisked her away. He stood for a moment, regaining his energy, and placed a complacent visage towards the students. "Now, as you know something so pretty is hard to create. I want you to try to create a flower first. It's an illusion, keep in mind, so don't put your head on something serious but rather in a lofty area."

For the next hour Arthur taught them the spell, simple compared to the grand woman, and they each tried. Some could do it more easily while others tried in vain until the final moment, creating only a drop of the celestial substance.

"Don't be discouraged," Arthur told them, grinning.

Finally the hour was over and the students were, with a final farewell from Arthur, sent back to the dormitories. The students, exhausted from the effort, struggled back. Even the most stern of Slytherins were grinning with wonder. Draco included.

"Do you still think that was a waste?" Someone asked him.

Draco turned, his features contorting to a mix of affirmation and disbelief. He remained silent. He had been impressed, even with the simplicity, and that bothered him.

Next the Hufflepuffs came. They stood, much more eager and chatty than the others. Arthur did not dawdle and instantly started on the lesson, teaching them instead easier self defense techniques.

"You are kind people, and so you do not want to harm your opponent. I will not be the one to tell you to forbid your nature, but rather to encourage it. I'll teach you a spell that will put your enemy into a state similar to intoxication." He then proceeded to teach the students spells that either cast their enemies into a steadfast sleep or into a delusion.

"But can't we learn this in class?" one of them asked, only able to make his partner somewhat dizzy.

"Yes, then you will certainly pass that class. Learning from a different teacher can help you as well." Arthur said simply and walked on.

The Hufflepuffs returned with these newly learned, or relearned, spells and talked about them to one another.

The Ravenclaws were next. Arthur watched them from his post on the stairs. They were set, their brows furrowed and their wands ready. Each one aspired to master the most difficult of spells, no matter the challenge. And, as Arthur planned, that was what he had in mind. He would teach them perhaps a spell to bend trees or to call spirits, but then he realized he was looking in the wrong place. These students needed to learn something that they were not good at. Arthur then, with a brimming grin, greeted the students formally and built up tension as though to prepared to separate the sea, and instead only held his wand aloft. The students cowered, expecting an explosion or burst of light, but instead a book zipped through the air and landed pat in his hand. He flipped through it, reading from several passages, and returned it.

"No, you do that."

"Sir, that's too easy!" Some students called. Even the first years agreed.

"Of course it is. Do you think I would give you something difficult?"

"But—sir—" one faltered.

"Yes?"

"I heard that you were one of the most powerful wizards, but…"

"But what? Do you not trust my opinion based on those facts?"

"Yes, but…"

"Yes but nothing. Go on, do as I say."

The students then rigorously brought the objects lined against the walls to their grasp. Some first years were unable to catch it. And, even after some time, the older students failed and the books hit them squarely in the forehead.

"You will train this until the end of the hour. By then you will have mastered it." Arthur said.

"But why, sir?" Another student inquired, holding a candle in her hands.

"Allow me to explain, then. In Martial Arts, practiced in China and Japan along with other parts of the world, one learns various movements and then trains them until they become second nature. What you all must understand, my intelligent pupils, is that simplicity is not the same as folly or stupidity."

As he watched the students for the rest of the hour, Dumbledore watched in the back, a smile on his lips, upturning his white whiskers. Next to him Professor McGonagall watched stiffly.

"He speaks so formally," she said.

"He has to make up for his lost height somehow." Dumbledore said with a near chuckle.

And once those students left, uncertain and tired the Gryffindors came. They stood the tallest, the proudest, with the most boastful appearances. McGonagall stood next to Arthur as he sized up the students.

In the center, Hermione, Ron, and Harry caught him there with the head of their house.

"Are we here early?" Someone said in front of them.

"We just saw the Ravenclaws come down and they were tired! What do you think he had them do?"

"I haven't a clue, but I'm excited!"

Professor McGonagall, her hands clasped before her, and her sharp face, with dangerously glinting eyes, reproached Arthur.

"I haven't seen you in a long time, Kirkland."

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Minerva."

"Yes, I wish I could say the same to you."

After a pause, Arthur shifted uncomfortably. The woman was like a slab of ice-cold metal near him. "I was given a second chance. I want to redeem myself."

"Yes, but of course."

Arthur went to teach the group. As he taught, he could feel her watching him, like pricks of fire poking the back of his neck. He knew she understood what his past pertained to, at least what the past seventeen years were, and it horrified him to no end.

The students were taught a borderline complex spell on how to create a defensive border around them. The students tried, Hermione inevitably excelled all standards, and the hour ended quickly. McGonagall left, her robes trailing behind her like a shadow. Arthur saw Hermione turn, chatting wildly about the spell, and stopped her.

Harry turned, and Ron waited. Harry expected to be seen by Arthur, as he was the chosen one, but Arthur bade him to move on.

"I'd like to speak to you, young lady." Arthur said. Hermione nodded and her friends stalked off, grumbling about something about her being an over-achiever.

"What do you need, sir?"

"I would like to give you a private lesson. Do you have any plans for next Saturday? If you do: cancel them. Then I want you to meet me after breakfast. Depending on how well it goes, you can be back by lunchtime, perhaps dinner if you want to learn more, but you mustn't tell anyone of this. That includes Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley."

"What shall I tell them instead, sir?"

"You're the bright one. Tell them whatever you want."

Hermione nodded and returned to her friends, creating a story of how he had praised her for excellence with a dirty conscience.

Arthur turned away and, once he thought he was alone, save for two green eyes watching him out of the corner, he looked down at his arm, placing his alternate hand upon it, and sighed. He rolled up his sleeve and watched the dark mark for some time, absorbing light and dragging him back to that time.

The green eyes widened and a friend behind asked him to come, for he may drop asleep at a moment's notice.

The owner of the green eyes shushed the friend and he, Harry Potter, stepped back further into the shadow as he heard footsteps echoing down the chambers.

Arthur looked up and saw the speaker, someone Harry couldn't see. After Hermione had returned with the news, he slipped back, using his cloak he kept under his arm for this very reason—he distrusted Arthur—and now hid, trying to see what Arthur was doing.

"Are you still here?" the voice, slimy, slippery, snaky said.

Arthur huffed, "I'm terribly exhausted."

"Then why don't you head to sleep?" Snape said. Harry heard something shift. And, for a moment, he fancied Arthur's gaze flew to him and then back. Harry's heart leaped to his throat and began hammering. Had Arthur more powers than he anticipated? Could he sense him there as though sniffing him out like a hound dog?

"I wanted to take one last good look around."

"That Granger girl is quite interesting, isn't she? She has a massive brain in her head. I'm surprised she could stay so… good, I suppose you could put it that way."

"Yes. The Dark Lord may have had good use for her."

"He may still have use of her, if he rises or if someone else decides to take that royal crown."

Harry's heart continued to pound, so hard that he feared the rushing of blood may deafen him.

"If I am correct," Snape continued, "Then you want to teach her in private?"

"That's correct," Arthur said stiffly.

"Are you still planning to create a dark side?"

"You ought to stop interrogating me," Arthur remarked coldly, "I have a plan in mind and I will carry it out, whether by bloodshed or not."

"So be it."

Snape seemed to walk away and Arthur, with one last sweep of the room, one that seemed to linger too long on Harry, he walked away.

Harry slumped against the wall, trying to understand. He couldn't let Hermione go. Also, she had deliberately lied to them, so she must have been bound to secrecy. Harry needed to convince her not to go while also convincing her that it was for some other cause and that he did not know where she was truly headed.

Still confused, Harry went upstairs and had a fitful dream about Sirius and Hermione, each with a python tightening around them and hissing. Sirius's eyes pleaded with him and Hermione's eyes were a shade of acidic green, a smile at her lips; something he was tempted to share with the divination teacher but, not feeling much for another impending death, decided to keep it all to himself. Without the ability to tell either of his friends, he became suddenly very lonely.

* * *

_Thank you again so much for the reviews!_

_And I was planning on responding to the questions personally, but then perhaps someone else is bothered by the same query so I'll answer it here. _

_Yes, I know Arthur is much taller. Don't think I kept mentioning this wrong fact without reason. Thank you, though, for pointing out his true height. I knew he was rather tall in the first place, and your observation made me happy that the adding of that fact didn't go in vain!_

_I raised the rating for reasons that will become evident soon. _

_The spells I made-up completely, using a mixture of my own imagination and of other fantasy stories. _

_And yes the chapter numbers aren't correct. _

_The title translates to "I must, I must" in German. _


	5. A Bare Bodkin

**7.**

**A Bare Bodkin**

The three friends sat around the breakfast table. Hermione, with unusual vigor, shoveled her toast and eggs into her mouth, looking down at the book in her lap occasionally.

"I've never seen you eat so much," Ron muttered through a full mouth.

Harry looked at her and then turned away, still trying to devise a plan to convince her to stay.

"I have so much to do," Hermione said, her words muffled by the amount of food crammed into her mouth, her teeth, now newly formatted, shimmered with butter.

"Like what?"

"I have to go to the library after breakfast. And don't be nosy." She returned to wolfing down the meal.

Ron rolled his eyes, shrugging, and making a face at Harry. Harry grinned uneasily, as if to say "oh, yes, I see what you mean…"

Ron did not seem to care after that. Hermione leaving for the library was completely normal for him at this point. Harry, however, had discomfort festering in the pit of his stomach. If Hermione left and something horrible happened to her, it would all be his fault for not saying anything. Hermione was his best friend. He couldn't stand the very thought and it made him sick.

"Hermione, do you think you could stay instead?" He blurted out.

Hermione turned her chin up, her hair falling into her eyes and a piece of meat hanging from her lips. She crammed it in, took a swig of juice, and asked why he wanted her to stay.

"You see, I need your advice." Harry began painfully, stretching his legs under the table. Around them the students flocked, enjoying the weekend and talking loudly. Other students filed in, blinking sleep from their eyes. Fred and George experimented with some new contraption in the far corner and the teachers strolled through the halls. An aura of calm had settled over the students like a veil on that fine morning. Homework was nothing but a worry until Sunday night when they would have to knuckle down and work on it. But for now, save for the students who preferred to finish it early, it was nothing.

"What do you need advice on?" Hermione asked, her eyebrows rising.

"I…" Harry, think, now! Harry racked his brains and fidgeted under the table. He needed something that would not let her venture to the library. Something that would keep her a good distance away…

"Is it private?" Ron interjected. "I can turn away if you want."

Hermione stared at him, her jaw dropping.

"What?" Ron's ears turned crimson.

"Why, that was the most humane thing I think you've ever said!"

Ron shrugged. "I suppose so."

"Well, Harry, is it private?" Hermione said, beaming.

"No—No, I mean yes. Yes it is extremely private. I need to speak to you personally."

Hermione's smile only brightened. Something inside her had been bestowed with a shaft of light. Harry internally winced at the thought that it was all for naught and it was only an excuse. He was abusing her feelings.

"Harry, I'm dreadfully sorry but I have to go now." She stood, collecting her things, "But once I return, which I'll try to do as soon as I can, then you can speak to me all you want!" She turned, her brown hair bouncing on her back, gleaming.

As she left, Ron and Harry remained. Ron didn't pester Harry. Harry wondered if Ron thought he had some trouble and that it was a tender issue that even the Hero couldn't solve. That was completely true. Ron hadn't the faintest clue as to what it was that upset Harry, but he decided on being a good friend and spoke to him about jokes and other light-hearted things.

Hermione was gone for the entire day. Harry did not see her at lunch or any time in between. When she did return, sitting down heavily by him during dinner, her face was etched with exhaustion but exhilaration. Evidently she had nearly worked herself to death trying to do whatever it was. Her eyes swam with fatigue that comes only after a heavy day of intense learning.

"You were there for hours!" Ron remarked, "Did you read the entire library?"

"Oh, no, I just got into a very interesting book and I simply couldn't stop." Hermione said with a faint laugh, digging her hands through her hair.

The trio, after dinner, headed up to the common room. Ron told Hermione about their lazy day and asked her with help on homework. She complied and Ron nearly fell over in astonishment. He fell behind and grabbed Harry's sleeve as she slipped through the portrait.

"What do you think she was doing?"

"Reading, what else?" Harry said and followed Hermione. Hermione waited at the entrance and took Harry aside.

"I'm sorry for not coming sooner. Trust me, I tried. Do you still want to talk about whatever it was?" She asked, rubbing her eye.

Harry had nearly forgotten about it.

"Oh, no, Hermione. I think you should go sleep. I'm fine. You shouldn't worry." He spoke quickly, patting her side awkwardly. "I think I've worked it out."

She gazed at him suspiciously for what felt like a very long time, and then bade him goodnight and trotted up the stairs, her feet dragging behind and her head bowed.

Harry could only wonder what happened.

There, far across the school in the teacher's quarters, up in Dumbledore's office, Arthur sat. He poised complacently over the stiff armchair, also exhausted. He had passed half of his magical knowledge on to Hermione and felt immensely drained.

"I hope the lessons went well." Dumbledore said, placing his hands on the tabletop.

Arthur grimaced in a vain attempt to smile.

"Horribly exhausting, it was, but I think she learned well. I taught her the spells you would not teach here as well as how to find other spells that can be much easier than the formal ways." Arthur explained, yawning into his palm.

Dumbledore nodded sagely, looking toward the rising ceiling and then setting his eyes back on Arthur. "Arthur, in your letter you said you would tell me why you needed to rejoin the Wizarding World, and I know you well enough to make a rather precise conjecture that you aren't simply paying us a visit."

"And you would not believe me if I told you I was bored sick of the muggles?"

"That is correct."

"Good assumption, Albus, but…"

"Can you not tell an old friend?"

"It's so convoluted!" Arthur said, rising and bringing his hands down, his robe sleeves rattling around his arms. "I don't even know how to start."

"Then I can also assume that you aren't here to help Harry?"

"Correct again," Arthur nodded twice.

"Are you running away?"

"I am, but I don't know from whom anymore."

"From yourself?"

"Nothing quite so philosophical as that," Arthur laughed, "But I'm not supposed to be anywhere. I think time has been messed up, but either way I'm being hunted by the others and here I still have the mark." He involuntarily touched his arm, pressing on the skin. "And… And you know how things are going to change very quickly here. If you excuse me, I think I need to sleep. Goodnight, Albus." Arthur stood up and, with a final nod, went down the stairs.

Going down the stairs, he passed McGonagall. She did not respond to him, save for a "goodnight" passing reluctantly. Arthur then went into his chamber and fell into a deep, dream-filled sleep.

McGonagall entered the office, her presence sucking up heat. She was concerned.

"Sit down, Minerva."

McGonagall seated herself, placing her hands upon her lap. Then she relaxed, her shoulders slumping and the tight pearl-white line of her lips reposing into fuller lips. "I don't think that it's a good idea to have him around."

"Why not?" Dumbledore smiled, pressing his fingers together under his nose.

"I can feel it in him. I'm not one to sense these things, but you remember how he once was. I heard him say it once before, even, 'oh what jolly fun it is to kill!'"

"People change, Minerva."

"You know very well that I'm not one to challenge your choices, but I want you to at least listen to me on this."

"Go on."

"Has he told you why he came here in the first place?"

"I invited him here."

"No, why he came back to our world," she shook her head.

"He keeps finding ways around telling me what exactly his motives are."

"How do you know he isn't here to kill Harry?"

"Minerva, that's a leap you took there. It's quite out of character too."

"I know, I should apply more logic and reason, but you know how he was! You fought him once—"

"—and lost—"

"—yes and perhaps you did lose because, I understand, he is extremely powerful. And perhaps he won't kill anyone. If anyone knows fate it's he. And I don't know his true identity. I understand that he's older than he looks and that—"

"—he is not a human being?"

"No he is a human being. I, well, if you must know: I'm worried. I'm terribly worried for the children. He gave Miss Granger those lessons, which is very kind of him, but I know he won't do anything without wanting something in exchange for it."

"He knows human kindness too."

"All I'm saying is that you should be very wary of him." McGonagall stood, patting her roves down and tightening up her stature once more. She bade Dumbledore goodnight and left, feeling distinctly troubled.

Dumbledore sighed, alone in his room save for the Phoenix in the cage. He lowered his hands and leaned back, looking at the portraits.

"Oh, Minerva, if only I could say for certain that I trust him." He thought aloud.

One of the portraits yawned, waking from his doze, and muttered down; "Ay, you don't trust him but you fear him. I feared him too, you know."

"So did I," a headmistress of yonder years agreed from her portrait.

"Alack! If only we knew who he was!" Another headmistress called.

"A stranger in our world, that's what he is!"

"He's nutty!"

"He's insane!"

"Perhaps we should lock him up!"

"Oh you know very well he'll escape! He'll slither through the bars!"

"He can change into a snake you're saying?"

"I heard that he could change into anything!"

"I heard much different!"

"Lock him up!"

"Yes, capture him!"

"Old Albus he's in your grasp just clutch—clutch!"

Dumbledore watched the paintings argue with one another about who he is, and then come to the general consensus that he should be put in the loony bin. Dumbledore stood, ready to quiet them, but he did not have to. For, then, came a sound.

It was a scream.

* * *

_The chapter title comes from Hamlet's most famous speech, the one that begins with "to be or not to be; that is the question". _


	6. A Center

**9. **

**A Center**

"I think now is a good time to turn back."

Black smoke rose in front of the window, pluming into great, swelling masses. They clung to the sides of the plane, blocking their vision. Arthur's knuckles turned white as he gripped the wheel harder, looking back at the rest of his crew.

"I think now is a very good time to turn back!"

_Clack-clack-clack_ debris plummeted on the roof and sides, hard pebbles and then larger chunks crashing into the metal and creating dents. Arthur's voice grew to hysterics, his breath coming in rapid rasps.

"TURN BACK NOW! ARE YOU INSANE?"

"WHAT? I can't hear you!" The man with the charming brown mustache called to him.

"TURN BACK!"

"WHAT?"

Arthur grabbed his radio and screamed his orders until he turned hoarse.

"TURN BACK TURN BACK TURN BA—"

A large object plummeted into the side of the plan, debris from a plane above. Arthur's engine ripped off, hurtling down through the air and into the land down below, crushing innocent lives into smithereens. Arthur lost control of the plane, rocking in his seat as the plane turned and roared. It fell to the earth, smoke rising from it and fire budding on the dismembered hulk. Arthur shut his eyes and placed his head against the wheel, knowing what would come next.

And what came next was a nurse's soft hand placing a wet cloth against his forehead, washing his face and scrubbing the bloody bandage around his head. He slowly opened his eyes, green semicircles visible under heavy lids. He attempted to understand his surroundings and instead shot out of bed.

"TURN BACK THE PLANE!"

"Sir, please relax," the nurse said, gently pushing him back down. He was aware of pain leaping from his bones to his muscles and back again. He cringed and leaned his head back.

"Where am I?" he muttered once his breathing resumed as normal.

The nurse smiled. She was an unremarkable girl with brown hair tied back and a pair of soft pink lips. Arthur hated her immediately.

"Don't you worry now, Mr. Kirkland. You should be amazed, in fact! You survived that horrible crash. No one else in your regiment did, however," she shook her head twice, and applied something to a wound on his arm. "You were pretty badly demolished. And, in the time you were unconscious in this hospital the war even had time to end!" She went on to describe America's moves in the war and the bombs dropped.

Arthur relaxed visibly. At least he wouldn't have to fly anymore of those horrid flights. He couldn't recall anything since the plane crash. It felt like a moment snapped in half, jarring pain at one end and at the other soothing bliss.

"Now we'll get you your meal…" the nurse said and stood.

Her hair bobbed as she walked and the other patients muttered something or other. Arthur was engulfed in a sweet white cloud of delirium. He floated in the air for a long time until he realized it was a memory he had seen.

Then, that moment snapped in half again, he shot his eyes open and found himself on the floor, his hair matted with something hot and wet. He gazed up and found drops of crimson beading down his forehead, pooling into a puddle by his head. The ground under him was a carpet, red and oriental, and smelling rotten. He began to sit up but was instead stopped by a wall of pain hammering down on him. His muscles couldn't move, his legs were tied together. He moved his eyes and his neck, which seemed alright, and saw no bindings of any physical forms on his body. His hands were clamped at his sides, his robes damp with blood and rain, and his wand nowhere in sight.

"So, he wakes."

Arthur painfully looked over, trying to look up the black robes surrounding him. Gruff hands seized his sides and heaved him into a sitting position. His head lolled back until those same hands grabbed him by the temples and faced him forwards. His vision swam. The figures before him, one man and one woman, drifted in and out of focus, ending finally with the woman grinning at him in striking clarity. She held his wand, gnarled and old, but fine all the same.

Her grin fell away, fruits falling from a branch as their stems crack. "What's a wizard so powerful doing on that side?"

"Yes," the man intervened, his black hair casting shadows on his face.

The room they stood in was an old house, demolished by Death Eaters, and marked with signs and signals of all shapes and forms, some not of wizardry, some not even of humanity.

"They forced you on that side, didn't they?" the man continued.

"No, I chose it." Arthur said, his breath shaking.

"Then choose this side next! We know you're under some spell."

Arthur felt the pain in his legs heighten, and then vanish all at once. He looked down, seeing them perfectly fine and shapely, long as well, under his robes.

"Well?"

Arthur looked up groggily, smiling. "I will never choose your side."

"Do you want people killed?"

"Yes."

A hand met his head and his mind seemed to rattle in his skull. It was a back-handed strike, done so close that it couldn't knock it out. Besides, he had suffered far worse.

"Sirius, don't hit him." The woman said.

"Sorry, Lily, but he was asking for it."

Arthur coughed, shuddering with laughter. "Why don't you just kill me now, then? You're resorting to hand-to-hand combat, and why would wizards have any use of that? You are horribly impractical. Don't you see why our side is better? The Dark Lord can change the world for good."

Lily stared at him, her green eyes shifting uncomfortably.

"We won't kill you because you know you can't die!"

"James!"

"We found the only book that tells your story. We locked it away, safe and sound. It was hard getting through it, but we managed. Oh, we really did manage. In fact, it's at our school now!"

"James!"

"Lily, you know there is no hope."

"There is," Arthur intervened, a smile stretching at his lips in similarity to a snake. "You, then, know much about me. You then also must know that taking my wand is not going to stop me from killing your right here and now."

The three took a step back. He could hear Sirius's feet sliding back behind him, echoing through the broken house. The very sound seemed to have been propelled through the cracks in the walls that showed the night sky in a strip.

"Then why haven't you?" Lily's voice shook.

"I haven't because I can't wreck your fate. Now, let me go."

"So you're saying you won't kill us?"

"I know fates much more horrible than death. For example: being practically immortal is not fun at all. That stone, the philosopher's stone, is the worst possibly fate one can imagine." Arthur then stopped speaking and gazed at that strip of sky, clarity and gorgeousness combined in a ribbon of stars at night, and the dark mark. The three stared at it. One screamed and then another and Arthur found himself lost in that murky world so airy and white. Green and red sprung from his wand and bodies fell by the hundreds.

But that murky fog was to lift again. The Dark Lord was terminated by a baby boy. Arthur slipped back for good into the world of nations, his wand hidden, and his past again clandestine.

And then his legs were being broken. They were damaged by both magic and sheer brute, hard objects falling against them, crushed, tortured, assailed, defiled, broken, crushed, annihilated. He blanched and fainted in horrible convulsions. He was captured again and some hands he recalled. Some eyes blue and bright glowered at him, their nails digging into his hands.

"This is what you'll have to do! You'll pay, Artie, you'll pay!"

The voices were white hands crawling from the darkness, scratching his very sanity as his legs were gone and he lost several inches of his height for they would never be healed again.

"Francis, Alfred…" Arthur muttered weakly, tears slipping down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

"Why did you do it?"

The voice echoed in the chamber of his mind. He knew his legs were attacked, for there still burned a fire. Darkness swelled, breathing, living, an organism with organs and genes and cells multiplying and dying off, sloughed into the rest of its infinite body, all incased behind his eyes.

He knew the voice. He knew the sharp sounds, the gruff edge; the accent.

"I thought it was…"

"What was it? Fun? Good? Jolly?"

"Evil cannot leave me."

"What?"

"I nursed on evil. I was bred in it. You understand so well that."

"You didn't have to kill so many people! I don't know much about your wizarding world, Arthur, but it hurt us all."

"You say I am bad, and here you are torturing me…" His voice was fading away, dripping through the cracks and seeping through the pours.

And when Harry Potter turned fourteen, he was venturing back into the world he nearly destroyed.


	7. The King Discovered

**11.**_  
_

**The King Discovered**

Harry slammed the book shut, his heart racing. The book was thick and heavy in his hands, the chains bound across it rattling precariously. Its screamed echoed through the library and through the night. He grabbed his invisibility cloak and tightened it around his body, placing the book back in its sot within the forbidden section, and rushing off back to his dorms. Soon enough teachers would fl0ck to the source of the shrill cry emitted from the seemingly harmless book.

Harry rushed back up the stairs, looking around the darkened hallways, and tapping as quietly as he could on the steps. He had gone to the library again like a curious child and snuck through the forbidden section: a twelve year old reading Arabian Nights under his bed sheets with a flashlight perched over his shoulder. He clutched his wand tighter as he moved, nearly tripping on his cloak.

In fact, a dream had told him to go into that section. He was not one for interoperating dreams as realities, as his divination class taught him, but this dream was so vibrant and real that he could not be dissuaded. So, in the dead of night, he grabbed his cloak and wand and rushed down to the library. He chose the book he had seen, with the black and rusty chains and the scorched title, so that only a few of the curving, archaic letters could be deciphered: an "o" and an "e" and an "s". When he opened it, it did not utter a sound. He leafed through the pages and skimmed description after description of powerful wizard, most deceased, others still lingering as half-alive corpses.

There, in the middle of the book, he opened it and found at once a clear picture of none other than Arthur Kirkland.

He saw the thick eyebrows over sharp eyes both clever and sly. He saw the tangled brush of hair and the curves of his face that were neither bony nor chubby. Harry gazed at those eyes for some time, hardly looking at the words on the sister page, and could see something very strange that he kept in mind for the next time he looked on the sage wizard's face.

In those eyes he saw something like a clear stone under a layer of murky water. It existed fully, without any bends or breaks, but was also vainly covered up by a filmy layer of secrecy. That stone Harry could sense but, it was not until he plopped back down on his bed with his cloak off and his heart beginning to calm, that he understood.

That man balanced dangerously on an apex between good and evil, at least the created forms of good and evil, and he could tip easily from one side to the other and cause an avalanche to follow. All it took was a shove from anyone and he would tumble down and down forever until he was stopped and replaced—even if it meant that both his legs would have to be destroyed.

Then Harry, finished examining the picture, turned his eyes to the text. He could not decipher the text very well. At first he thought it was because the low light of his wand was not enough. That proved not to be the case. The wand illuminated the picture just fine. Then he figured that the text was an indecipherable blob of ink. Finally, he realized after straining to catch a word or two in Old English, he realized the words were shifting around slowly and merging together. Harry placed his finger against the first row and the book gave a violent, jerky shudder and began to howl forlornly. At first it was nothing but a mere annoyance, a tiny whining no one would hear, and then it grew and grew into a ferocious roar that sharpened acutely into a shriek that rolled through the halls and greeted Dumbledore and, as well, Arthur.

When the sound pierced his ears Arthur shot straight up. He had been lying on the bed, reading a book complacently, on the verge of sleep, when it sounded. His head spun and his knees turned to water.

"Oh, no."

"Oh my," professor McGonagall said at that same moment, her eyes widening.

"Oh…" another teacher moaned and chose to ignore it.

Dumbledore rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. "Oh, Harry, what have you done?"

And, surprisingly, the following day no one seemed to have ever heard the noise that seemed to tear the night like a dagger. Harry was greatly relieved. He even forgot about its contents, which he wanted to discuss with Ron and Hermione.

Ron, who noticed Harry's elation, felt quite airy himself. He strode down the halls to his next class, and past a doorway slightly ajar. He paused, feeling that luck was facing him, and sighed contently. The tournament was nearing now. Soon the other schools would be arriving, in little less than two weeks, and everything would become busy. Busy as a beehive, eh? Yes, indeed, Ron nodded gravely to no one but himself.

In the crack along the door he could see a beam of light from the unused classroom. Just vaguely he could see Arthur Kirkland, the strange wizard who taught them not long ago, and he had his head buried in his hands. Ron stepped away from his line of vision and watched curiously. He was not very interested in the man, certainly not as much as Hermione or Harry, but he had some compelling aspects about his person that did not fail to drag Ron in as well. Ron thought he was crying, but when he raised his face it was dry.

"I suppose I should leave soon." He said to someone in the room.

He laughed hoarsely and shook his head slowly, placing it back again on his hands. There was no response from the other person.

"You know, there must be a point to this suffering. There must be a way to atone."

Again: no response.

Arthur's lips curled into a pained smile. "We'll talk later. When we're alone." His green eyes flickered to Ron. Ron retreated. He heard Arthur's feet hit the ground and heard his steps slowly vanish from the room and through the door opposite. Ron took another look in.

There was no one there.

Funny, he thought, there was only the sound of one pair of feet leaving.

* * *

_Thank you very much for the reviews!_


	8. The King's Illusion

**13.**

**The King's Illusion**

The quills scraped against the papers and the fire crackled, engulfed the common room in a din of low murmurs of sweet relaxing noise. Hermione tucked her hair back behind her ear, leaning her chin on her palm, and sighed.

Harry watched her pour over the potions essay and felt that he could no longer focus on his. His eyes flicked constantly towards her as he pretended to be lost in thought. Their eyes met and she allowed a faint smile to pass over her lips.

"Is there something wrong, Harry? Do you need help?"

"Oh sure, you help him but not me!" Ron guffawed angrily.

"He isn't begging for it! And besides, you ask me to do it and not to help you do it." She retorted.

Harry shook his head. "No, it's nothing. It's fine, the essay's just brutally tedious… Now, what I was thinking was about that strange man."

"You mean that Kirkland fellow?" Ron asked, poking his finger with the quill.

"Yes."

"Oh, you worry too much. He'll be leaving soon enough." Hermione said.

"No, well, I didn't tell you this but the other night I went to the library…" Harry launched into a recollection of his misadventure two nights before.

Hermione arched her eyebrows. She had not even taken notice of the book before. A group of first years stood and left to their dorms. The girls, flocking together and yawning, their eyes batting, giggled complacently. Ron nodded and Hermione turned to him, her essay abandoned.

"Come to think of it, the other day I saw that man talking to no one," he said and described what he saw through the crack in the doorway.

Harry constantly looked at Hermione, as if she would spill her secret lessons with him at any moment, but she kept her lip tightly pressed together.

"He is very strange, I admit it." Hermione said at length.

"Yes, but what I think is that he isn't just strange but he's important." Harry realized that only he of the three knew about the mark on his forearm. "—And anyway," he continued, deciding against revealing that just yet, "If a book with his picture screamed at me and he went through such lengths to remain hidden, there but be something important or dangerous to hide."

"Or, perhaps, he just doesn't want to be public. You off all people must understand how publicity can be annoying," Hermione said.

"Are you defending him?" Ron asked, "You're just doing that because you think he's attractive."

"I am not! And he is not attractive," Hermione's cheeks flushed bright red.

Ron mumbled something that sounded like "Lockhart".

Hermione's cheeks continued to redden and she lowered her face, so that her hair fell in around her cheeks and sheltered her embarrassment. Her brows furrowed together. "He's a good person," she muttered.

"How do you know?" Ron shot back.

By now the common room had cleared out. The only person left was a second year snoozing on a couch far away from them, her hand on her temple and her books still resting on her lap. Her chest rose and fell evenly, her eyes fluttering beneath her lids to give the impression that she dreamt.

"You've never been more than a few hours with him, and I don't recall you speaking to him. Unless you count the time he held you back to praise you." Ron continued in response to Hermione's silence.

"If you must know, and I was ordered to keep this secret, I had a lesson from him. It was nothing more than a few simple spells and tips. Really, it was nothing," Hermione rattled on, so as not to be interrupted, "and the whole time he was very supportive. He did not even once berate me, he didn't admonish me instead he helped me, and was incredibly patient. He's old, too. He wouldn't reveal his age but if you look into those strange eyes you realize at once that he's so much older than you'd think. Even after all that he spoke to me about something that I will never forget but that I will never, ever, tell you a word of it." She fell into a steamy silence, her arms crossed.

Ron stared at her and then turned away, curling his lower lip in and gently biting it. His teeth appeared under the soft pink flesh, like pearls. Harry sighed heavily, indicating that it was his turn to speak.

"Hermione, since you decided to tell us, I may as well tell you something I've held back. I knew you were at the lesson. I didn't trust that man so I stayed behind to eavesdrop… And I didn't want you to go because of what I saw." He stopped dramatically, waiting for them both to show interest in the important bit of information he prepared to reveal.

"Well, what is it?" Hermione asked, quickly losing patience.

"I saw," he lowered his voice even though there was no chance of being overhead, and said; "The Dark Mark on his arm."

Ron blanched.

Hermione was not shocked whatsoever. She only nodded.

"I know." She said.

Ron turned his pale face to her. "You know?"

"Yes, I know."

"How?"

"He told me."

"And you… still think he's good!?" Ron spat the last word, craning his neck forward in disbelief.

"Yes, of course I do!" Hermione said. "He showed me the mark first thing I got in. He rolled up his sleeve, and told me that there would be no tricks. I didn't trust him at first. In fact, I was terrified. But as I got to know him… well, I think that people can change."

"I doubt he has." Harry said, sighing.

"You know what?" Hermione exasperated, standing up and collecting her things. "I'm tired of you judging someone on their past and their background and not who they are and what they do! I'm going to sleep. Good night." She stomped up the stairs, jerking the girl on the couch awake. The girl snorted and scrambled after Hermione, rubbing her eyes and dragging her feet. Hermione scolded her for staying up so late and went into the girl's dorm.

Harry and Ron couldn't meet eyes. They sat moodily for some time, until, Harry cleared his throat again. "Maybe we should take a look at Arthur… And at that room you saw him talk to no one in."

"Sure."

Harry rushed upstairs, dropped off his things, and returned with his cloak. He and Ron huddled underneath it and quietly exited the common room, taking quiet steps through the halls and holding their breaths when someone passed by.

The halls stretched out into the nighttime. Heavy clouds pregnant with rain hung overhead, dragging the sky with them. Their robes brushed against the floor and aside from the hums and groans of the castle there was no sound. Ron ushered Harry to the room he passed, and Harry slipped his hands from under the cloak and slowly, steadily, pulled the door open and peered in. Inside, along with darkness, they saw nothing.

"Harry!" Ron whispered and elbowed Harry, nodding to the left, where the room continued. Harry nearly broke his neck trying to see.

There, on the other side of the room, Harry and Ron laid eyes on the most beautiful woman they had ever seen. She sat on a chair draped in white fabric, used to keep dust away when it was not being used. Her face was a perfect oval, hardly a blemish spotting her clear, gentle face. Her eyes, almond shaped, and at rest, gazed strictly forwards, blinking gracefully at times to indicate that she was very much real. Her hands, carved of marble, were before her in the folds of her chest. Her soft lips were round and her hair was tied up and bound by ornaments, brushed away from her face, and shifting vaguely. Yet, when she moved, she revealed whatever was behind her. She was translucent. Her body was made of an ethereal substance unreal and cold. Harry and Ron stumbled back, trying not to stare. She was not a Veela, they knew, but she was human—somewhat similar to the Geisha of Japan.

They did not think of Geisha, of course.

They continued, shaking off the strange feeling of the woman, and found a door open. Golden candlelight poured through. Harry and Ron stopped, watching it, waiting for the caretaker to spring up, hunting them down like a dog on a hunt. Instead, no one emerged.

Harry and Ron stepped forward cautiously, glancing in.

With his back to them, Arthur sat, looking distantly out the window at the star-strewn sky. His hands were kept on his lap, like the woman, and they heard him huff.

"Come over, I knew you'd come. You know an Invisibility Cloak is useless against me, especially you, Potter."

* * *

_Thank you again for the reviews! Please keep 'em coming, etc, etc.,... But really, thank you so much for your support. I wouldn't have gotten so far without you. _


	9. The King's Ghost House

**13.**

**The King's Ghost House**

"Come in, take a seat." Arthur stood, turning slowly towards them.

Ron and Harry, too shocked to even move, stared at him.

"What are you afraid of? You aren't in trouble. If you keep standing out there like deer in headlights then you will be caught." Arthur attempted to make a warm gesture but failed miserably.

Eventually Ron and Harry found the strength in the legs to move. They stepped forwards. Arthur waved his wand, the door shut behind them softly, and he muttered another spell so that they could not be overheard. Two chairs appeared before him. Harry pulled the cloak off and folded it, placing it on his lap. He sat next to Ron, who turned visibly very pale. His lips were parted and his eyes wide, as though he feared for his very life.

Arthur looked at them both. He was sickly. His face blanched and flushed periodically, his breath occasionally coming in sharp breaths and sometimes in rasping, drawn out sighs. He appeared to have a fever but said nothing about it.

"So, tell me, why are you two here?" Arthur asked. "I know Hermione told you about our meeting."

Harry coughed into his fist, attempting to bring up his voice. He couldn't and instead his throat swallowed a tight knot of emotion. Ron's mouth was too dry to form words. Even though Arthur appeared in no condition to harm them, they were horrified that he could see them. He probably knew why they were there, too.

"Do you need tea?" Arthur asked at length.

Finally finding his voice, Harry shook his head. "No, sir, we're just a bit shocked."

"Yes, I see."

"We're here because, well…" Harry faltered, his eyes falling limply to the floor, occasionally flicking up but unable to meet Arthur's green eyes, so close he could see the ring of black surrounding them.

Harry had come into the room fully prepared to berate Arthur and call him out on the lie, but now the man was being so nice and gentle he couldn't find the heart to do it. But, if he wanted to make sure the school was safe, and more importantly that Hermione was, he would have to set aside any hesitation.

"Are you asking about my past?" Arthur tapped his forearm. Harry could image the tattoo-like mark on his arm, deep and burning.

"Y-yes, sir," Ron piped up, his voice shrill.

"I can assure you that I have no malice to give at this time. At least, not here," Arthur explained calmly, "I did some rather ill-minded things in the past, I admit, and I won't admit that I've changed, but I have nothing against you all now. I can't meddle with any of you. Think of it like this: your destiny is a pool at the bottom of a waterfall. Each of you is a drop of water, hurtling quickly and without control. If something, say a rock, were to throw you off course you'll end up on dry land or somewhere you don't belong. I won't be that rock, and your pools have been ascertained for a very, very long time."

"So you expect us to believe that you giving Hermione those lessons was a part of her 'destiny'?"Harry retorted.

"No that was of my own choice."

"But you just said that you couldn't interfere!"

"When did I say that?"

Harry was about to respond hotly, but a snake-like smile passed over Arthur's lips. Arthur, having seniority, overrode him.

"Harry, you can't possibly understand my motives. I doubt Albus even understands them. And besides, you're too young."

"I am—"

"Don't interrupt."

"Sorry, sir."

"Is that all you wanted to ask me? You need some sleep. Those guests will be here very soon." Arthur said, leaning back on his wooden chair. The room was a cluttered mess of tables and scrolls, some covered in dust. The room seemed to fulfill no purpose except for the purpose of existing. Arthur's dark purple robe rustled around him. He kept his hands on his knees. Clumps of hair fell just short of his eyes, resting complacently on his eyebrows. A sprinkle of freckles covered his cheeks from being in the sun lately. "Or do you want to see my legs as well?"

"Why? Is there something wrong with them?" Ron blurted out before he could stop himself. His ears turned crimson and he sat back, eyebrows elevated.

"So, Granger didn't tell you about that, did she? She's better at keeping secrets than I thought."

Arthur bent down and grabbed his robes, bunching them up. The hem flew above his ankles. Ron looked suddenly very sick and turned away. Harry sat mesmerized. He'd never seen anything so hideous and cruel.

Dropping the robes, the wounds were gone and Ron turned back. Just like that, with a single motion, the very notion of his damaged limbs ceased to exist.

"Or do you want to know about your fortune, then?" Arthur continued his voice strange. It seemed as though he was both restraining himself and forcing himself to speak—like he had no choice in the matter. When he spoke his eyes gleamed with pain, the very words possibly soothing it.

"No thanks," Harry said, then added; "Sir."

Arthur leaned back, clutching his forehead. "I beg your pardon…" he muttered at last. "I'm a bit ill. I've been having trouble lately."

"It's no matter, sir." Ron said.

Harry stood, preparing to leave. He grabbed his cloak, looking towards the door bathed in warm golden lamplight. "Oh," he said at last, feeling almost hesitant at looking towards Arthur's sick state, but he moved on, thinking this may be his last chance. "Who is that ghost?"

"That ghost…? The woman you mean?"

"Yes sir."

Arthur's lips collected into a horribly painful smile. He seemed as though he could burst into tears at any moment. "I've only fallen in love with a woman two times in my life and neither ended very well, as you can imagine."

Harry and Ron, both young teenage boys, felt as though they had treaded into dangerous territory. Although neither could understand the extent of Arthur's suffering, they could see from the heaviness of his words to the sorrow in his very movements that it was nothing light.

Both boys lingered by the door, Harry's hand transparent under the cloak, as though he was lacking that appendage.

"You both are too young, as I said, so you may not understand why this is important. But you'd do better to hear it from Miss. Granger."

Harry and Ron nodded, leaving, feeling very uncomfortable.

The following morning, Harry inquired Hermione as to what Arthur meant by all that.

Hermione perked up, placing her hand in the book to save her place. She stared at Harry for a very long time, her features shifting indecisively from anger, to frustration, to a deep moving sorrow. "Oh Harry, I'm so sorry."

"What is it?"

"Well, the first person he loved was that Ghost you saw, he told me about that. And the second time, well…" she looked down.

"Who was it?" Harry asked. For a moment he didn't want to know.

Hermione looked anywhere but at him. She spoke in a voice so low he could barely hear her.

"The second time was to your mother, Harry."

Harry stared at her for a long time. She didn't seem able to breathe the entire while.

"What? First Snape and now him?"

"Oh it's nothing like that!" She spoke up, shaking her head so that ringlets of brown hair bounced. "He didn't have a romantic love for her. Oh you boys understand nothing! All you think he loved her for was her looks or something. But it was friendship. If he asked me to tell you, then I guess I have to tell you in full. But it's a nice day. How about we go by the lake?" She attempted to cheer them up with a smile. They hesitantly followed her outside. They sat down in the grass. The wind was beginning to chill and become crisp. The lake rippled. Several other students walked around the grass, chatting, and enjoying the overall pleasant atmosphere of the weekend.

"Go on with your story," Harry said stiffly.

"I guess I'll start with the first ghost. She really is a ghost now, though, and she's in the castle by the way. That wasn't some sort of metaphorical saying. And I can't remember her name, mainly because he hardly dared say it. The details are murky because, again, Mr. Kirkland remained stubbornly silent the entire time."

Hermione went on to describe in fragmentary details how Arthur, after the war, had visited an impoverished teahouse in Japan only to be greeted by the most beautiful geisha he had ever seen. He fell instantly in love. She was relatively young and still lived in her okiya. As he continued to visit her and they discussed their lives, he grew to become even fonder of her. He was poor at the time so he could not afford to become her _danna _which is her "husband" that buys her kimono and gets, when Hermione said this she blushed and could not look at either of the boys, special attention from her. But eventually she could not remain in her poor town and agreed to come to London. She was not a witch. This Arthur described poorly, but somehow he ended up describing how she died and agreed to remain in this castle as a watch on all the young women.

"Too bad she can't sustain Moaning Myrtle."

"There's a chance, isn't there, that he was lying?" Ron asked, plucking at the grass by his legs.

"There is that chance. Maybe he made the entire story up. Maybe really that woman is a witch and he had made up this fantastical tale just to explain things better. He still thinks I'm a child and that I won't understand what the real story is." Hermione said, letting out an exasperated sigh.

"What about my mum?" Harry asked in a voice unnaturally soft.

"Oh, yes. Well that I know even less of. All I know is that he met her when she was married, they had some sort of relationship, then he turned into a Death Eater, and nearly killed her several times."

Harry stood, frozen in shock.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything." Hermione muttered and grasped Harry's arm, but he was already standing and shaking her off.

His features had contorted to unadulterated rage, burning fire.

"You mean his kindness was to cover up for this? Is that why—he—how?" Harry blustered. "He's at fault for all this?"

"Harry you're overreacting. He didn't actually do it." Hermione's argument sounded weak even to her.

Harry left, fuming. Ron followed. He gave Hermione a pained look and turned back, trying to talk some sense into Harry.

After remaining in the cool air for a moment longer, Hermione decided to take her things and return to the library. Arthur would be leaving very soon. At least after that her troubles would be over. Harry will calm down and realize that maybe Hermione may not have good information, or maybe he'll be absorbed in something such as the tournament, and then things will get better.

Hermione was horribly wrong.

* * *

_Thank you all for the reviews! I'm very excited about the upcoming chapters. _


	10. The King Ignoble

**15.**

**The King Ignoble**

"Professor Dumbledore, please, may I speak to you?" Harry said seriously, his jaw slackened.

Ever since Hermione had revealed that information that Arthur had affiliated with his mother, he had been enraptured by the thought that his mother's death and Arthur's evil were linked together. The thought had taken shape in his mind, like a fantasy or imaginary friend in a child's, and had taken such solid form he was unable to shake it off. No matter how much logic he used as crowbars, the idea remained stubbornly in place, glued by his teenage mind going helter-skelter.

"Yes, come in, Harry."

Harry entered the office, looking once across its beautiful décor before sitting down heavily before Dumbledore.

"Sir, I have reason to believe that Arthur Kirkland should not be trusted." Without waiting for an affirmative statement to allow him to continue, Harry launched into his conjectures, describing Arthur and his damaged legs with a sense of disgust.

Dumbledore did not interrupt him. He slowly dragged his fingers through his long beard, nodding at times, and sighing once or twice.

"I see, Harry," he said at last once Harry came to a stop, his mouth dry. "But do you think I would have allowed him in my school without considering his past?"

"No, sir…"

"Do you not trust my judgment?" his voice was gentle despite his words.

"No, I trust your judgment, sir."

Harry dismissed himself. And, as he did, following the short exchange, even Dumbledore began to doubt his own judgment.

* * *

Very far away, several countries over, and a roaring sea between, white robes brushed against the floor. The man's lips barely moved. They were thin and pale, like rose petals first blooming. He kept his hands before him, his head held straight forwards. His steps echoed down the ancient halls, ringing like bells.

Before him the shadows moved, briefly merging to look like two great wings of a raven. The man stopped quite suddenly, his eyes widening at the image. It had been only an illusion but it stirred deeper memories, as though he had stuck a spoon into his tea and brought the leaves that settled at the bottom back to the top.

The image had reminded him of an undertaker bending down to snatch his prey away to the gates of death. It was, again, but an illusion and the man continued on as though nothing happened. He went through the halls, enjoying the sunlight leaking in from the windows, auburn with the fringes of autumn, and still retaining some warmth. He hummed complacently as he walked, the music too rung through the halls.

They stopped abruptly.

Not far away a young woman heard the sudden silence, chopped with a blade, and looked up from the book she read. She shut it and set it in the folds of her robes, tucking a curl of black hair beneath her hair. She wore a dress of beautiful silks and designs: prancing horses, flowers, girls dancing, and falling rain. She pulled the hood of the cloak she wore over her head, crawling closer to the source of the sound. She peered through the cracks in the doorways, hiding as though for her life—which was exactly the purpose.

Before her, seen through the cracks, the man had dropped to his knees. He writhed in pain, as though experiencing a heart attack or stroke. He seemed unable to move, squirming and moving, eventually dropping forwards, his night gown spilling around him in the halls of his very own home.

His mouth worked, trying to speak, but he could not.

The young woman prepared to spring out, if the case was truly that he was suffering a medical issue. But before she could move, a voice sliced through, an arrow whizzing past, and she returned to the shadows, holding her breath in fear.

"So," the voice said, a man's, "it seems that you haven't changed."

The man she could see, not the speaker, stopped moving at once and fell limp to the floor. A gasp caught in her throat. Had he died? She clutched at her dress, close to her breast, where her heart pounded wildly.

The man looked up slowly, proving he was indeed alive, his light brown eyes watery with pain. His hair, the color of copper, fell into his face, blocking his expression from her.

He gasped and sputtered, "Why did you hurt me?"

"I only hurt you to make sure you hadn't turned your back at the most opportune moment!"

Again the man fell, howling in pain. It seemed as though the pain was internal, no outside force had placed it upon him. He dug his fingers into the floor and panted like a dog. The young woman felt tears spring to her eyes and stubbornly told them to stay.

The pain lifted again and the speaker shuffled forwards, still out of her line of vision, and roughly grabbed the man's night gown, tugging him to his feet. The gown slid up his feet, revealing his smooth, almost feminine legs, and then he dropped back down, trembling.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, his voice cracking.

The stranger placed something in his robes, ebon black, and seemed to sigh.

"Have you already forgotten?"

"As for _that _I already did it. So keep in mind that I don't want to! You spider! You caught me in your web by mistake and you won't even let me go! Just eat me and get it over with it!"

"If I did not intend to capture you," the stranger returned solemnly, "then I did not intend to eat you. But while you're in my gossamer web, I have to make the best of you."

The man trembled visibly, his bravery cracking.

"You realize I don't have any more time." The stranger continued, "I've said it a thousand times and I will say it once more. The Dark Lord shall rise. I want that honor. I want that glory. I don't want to suffer anymore."

The stranger's voice took a sudden turn, but returned at once to its metallic iciness.

"And you can play an important part. Imagine what will happen to you! Imagine if the Dark Lord rises and he knows that you betrayed his reviver! Then you'll regret it all."

"I'm doing the best I can… I'm not a wizard…"

"But you have powers too."

"All of us do."

"Then get back to work on that potion, Feliciano! I have a feeling some rat may get there first and I don't want that to happen." The stranger barked and turned away, leaving Feliciano standing there in his night gown, perspiring from fear.

The stranger shut the large oak doors behind him, entering the cool evening. He stood at the entrance for quite some time, watching the leaves flutter down and glimmer in the sunshine, like falling flecks of gold. He considered it for some time, scratching his sandy blond hair and lowering his green eyes.

"I'm not Arthur Kirkland much, am I?" he said to himself and, with another moving sigh that seemed to shift his entire being, he vanished from that spot with a soft and dry _pop._

Inside of the building, Feliciano shivered and went through the halls, finally locating the young woman who had listened to their entire conversation.

She looked at Feliciano calmly, as though she hadn't heard a word. She may as well hadn't, for she understood none of it.

"Hello," he said, bending down before her. His hair, nice even curls, fell just short of his eyes. His eyes always moved her. They were like portions of the early morning sky cut from the heavens and placed on his clean white eyes, spotted with a drop of black one might make if he raised a pen or quill just the right distance from the paper and let the ink drip.

"Hello," she responded politely, giving him a smile, her reddish-brown lips parting. Her face was a long oval face, with a beauty mark on the upper left cheek, radiated inborn warmth.

Feliciano smiled back, his pearly teeth shining, and his eyes pained. But that smile drained away, as did hers, and was replaced by a look of extreme agony. His features contorted; the bridge of his nose crinkling. His eyebrows bent inwards and his lips turned into a scowl. He pulled the girl into a hug briefly and then, his entire body shifting with a sigh, he said two words that froze her stiff.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

_I wasn't planning on releasing this chapter so soon, but I may not have time very soon for much of anything, so the sooner I get this done the better, I suppose. _

_Thank you very much for reading! _


	11. Going and Coming

**15.**

**Going and Coming**

"What a shame, really!" Francis Bonnefoy of France laughed with a sober shake of his head. "Can't you stay just a little longer? I'm sure you will enjoy the Tournament. Are you afraid it will bore you?"

Arthur, his mouth drawn, attempted a hoarse chuckle but nothing came out. "Yes, it is a shame. I would have very much enjoyed viewing it, what with the festivities you and Bulgaria already have shown us, but I have something to do… a lot of things to do, at that."

"Such as what?"

Francis wore a gauzy blue coat over fine pants. His shoes were polished to shine and his hair, fair and elegant in each curl undisturbed by even a single outlying hair, remained tidily pulled back. He stood well above Arthur, who wore raggedy black robes and held a valise under his arm, his wand tucked away. Arthur appeared of average temperature, though pale, as though he had just gotten over a sickness.

"Don't answer if you don't want to." Francis said at last with a polite smile, gently patting Arthur's shoulder. Then, he stopped quite suddenly. Their backs faced each other. They could hear each other just fine over the dull din of students.

"Yes, Francis?" Arthur said, not moving. He kept his eyes on the open doors on the failing vegetation just beyond. Fleecy clouds were scattered through the blue sky, hinting bad weather.

"Is she still there?"

"Yes, she is."

"Do you mind if I pay her a visit?"

"If you can find her, be my guest."

And, though Francis did not see it, Arthur smiled coyly, a near sneer Draco would be proud of.

"Good luck in whatever it is that comes your way. Bonne chance, Arthur." Francis said. Arthur barely heard him and left.

Francis stood there for some time, worried about Arthur's further actions. Francis would only be there occasionally to watch the Tournament and then flit out when he needed to do some business.

Standing there, Francis wondered if Arthur had forgotten what had been done to him—or better yet, forgiven him. Francis doubted it. Some ill-divining spirit was at work, and even if Arthur did not spring up now, like a stalking tiger, he would eventually attack his prey mercilessly.

The thought drifted in Francis's mind, eventually sinking below the waves, and he stalked away in the opposite direction from Arthur, his heels clicking.

The Tournament and all its events proceeded undisturbed. Harry was chosen to enter and the others were annoyed. Arthur never showed his face, much to the disappointment of Francis who still nursed the hunger to apologize.

Francis proved to be the only one who noticed Arthur had left. Dumbledore did not appear to, and if he did he showed no sign. Harry and Hermione both quite forgot about Arthur for some time. He did not fall away from their memories, to be sure, but he settled at the bottom like sand in a jar of water. Hermione kept the lessons inside her head passionately and Harry was too busy trying not to die to care what had happened to the strange man. If anything, he would rather have never met Arthur.

What did alert them of his absence was a sudden feeling of emptiness. Hermione and Dumbledore noticed this especially. It seemed as though the school had been reduced in some way. It was back to normal, but, like a crown that lost a jewel later added but not there at the beginning, the school felt vacant, as if all the spirit had been sapped from it.

* * *

_I apologize for the brevity of this chapter. Thank you for reviewing, by the way! You all are awesome._


	12. Fallen Hero

**17.**

**Fallen Hero**

Clutching the deceased body, Harry stepped forwards. Grimy with blood and panting, the body soon came tumbling down from his arms, laying as though asleep in the grass. Cedric then was swarmed all around by weeping and mourning witches and wizards. He felt nothing for he had been dead for a very long time. The bodies, attracted to death like flies, howled laments.

* * *

Standing in the field, dead grass creeping up their legs, the Death Eaters roamed like plagues. But the Dark Lord had no eye for any of them. He turned away and went first to reward his riser. He ignored the man who sacrificed his finger and went straight to the man who supplied the recipe. The Dark Lord was not to be deceived of where gratitude, if it could be called so, was due. He swept through the field and yonder back he discovered the two.

Feliciano stood chilled with nothing but his own inner temperature. His black robes clung to his body, stained darker in certain areas. He looked up once the Dark Lord approached, a chill jumping down his spine and festering in his neck like a ball of electricity.

Feliciano barely understood what Voldemort said to him and only nodded. He bowed his head several times and then he passed. Feliciano bit at his two small, soft lips and turned away, heading back to his home.

Then the Dark Lord approached Arthur, standing in his Death Eater gowns, his eyes gleaming wickedly like a snake, green as poison, and his lips slyly smirking.

"You have risen, my Lord." Arthur said, bowing.

"I have a task for you." Voldemort grinned, his nose, pressed into his face, sharply lit by the dim lights of stars and the moon. Neither celestial being seemed clean or pure but instead ugly whites of ghastly prisoners and of bone. The light they poured down was chalky and dry, lacking of poetic quality and only adding to Arthur's stature.

Voldemort regarded it quietly. The grisly, foul nature of Arthur, seeping evil and murder, his very smile a hound's and his very look enough to create toxic waste was the perfect degree of evil to instill into his victims. Arthur was born to this.

Arthur did not think he was born to this. He believed he was born in a pinnacle, a high apex of a sharp incline that on one side led the glorious and warm gold and silvers of kings so noble their land was fair and only so. The other side was the abyss of which torture and pain were the most delicious of treats. Arthur had wobbled dangerously from side to side now.

Hermione's lessons were a farewell to the noble and good, so he could dive into the base.

"What does my Lord wish me to do?" Arthur asked.

"I do not clearly understand what you are, exactly, but you are obviously of great power and you have been an asset. Though it angers me that you will never say what you truly are, you understand my motives…"

Arthur remained silent.

The Lord before him, snaky and flimsy in the presence of other evils but in himself disastrous and frightening, said three words that even Arthur began to hesitate.

"Weaken Harry Potter."

"Yes sir."

"Do not kill him. Only use whatever abilities you hold to your name to weaken him enough that he may fall into my clutches."

"Yes sir. With pleasure."


	13. The King Atoned

**The King Atoned**

Harry Potter rummaged through the garbage bins, seeking any newspapers that may have been thrown out. He found old orange peels, now yellowed and crispy with age, a sock with a hole in it, and several other unimportant and smelly items. Sighing, he stepped back, wiping his hands off on his jeans.

A scuffling noise sounded from the alleyway not far from where he stood. He flattened himself against the wall, out of sight from the source of the sound. He clutched his wand through his clothing. With every breath coming quickly, but not so that he felt dizzy, he peered down the alleyway. Then he relaxed significantly. It was only Dudley and his gang, lighting up and passing the smoking stick around them, laughing hoarsely and making crude jokes.

Dudley did this often. He lied to his mother about going out to tea with his friends and instead went to terrorize the town. It was a favorite habit of his. If Harry way caught, nearly fifteen years old, he would have been ripped apart and beaten up. Harry slid back through the alleyway, further into the looming darkness.

As he stepped back, he felt something hard under his feet and something soft greet his face. He stumbled back and looked at what—or rather who—he had stepped on.

Before him, dressed in black robes, gaunt, and nearly hidden under a sandy mop of hair, Arthur Kirkland stood. He had his wand before him, a gnarled stick scorched in several areas. Even a part of his skin was discolored.

"Mr. Kirkland," Harry breathed. He had forgotten about the teacher what with the Tournament and the rising of Voldemort. The wand was not aimed in protection but in offense. Harry eyed it uneasily, stepping back. He could have possibly defended himself against Dudley, but one of the most powerful wizards of them all would be too much. "What are you doing?" Finding his voice at last, he asked the shaky question, fumbling for his wand.

"Don't grab the wand, Harry. You know you can be expelled for misusing magic. And besides, whose word do you think the Ministry is bound to believe in more: yours or mine?"

But as Arthur spoke, his voice began to decay, as though it was an organism going through a thousand years after death. He barely kept his watery eyes fastened on Harry. They continuously slipped. Harry realized that they had the same color of eyes.

"What are you doing?" Harry responded, letting go of his wand.

The tip of Arthur's wand wavered.

"I only wanted to… I can run… I can go back through with the rings and…"

"Sir?"

"Yes, I can run." Arthur said and dropped his wand. It fell to the hard cement with a clatter. The murmurings and guffawing of Dudley's gang suddenly stopped.

"What was that?" A slow, stupid voice rose in the silence.

"Probably a cat. Now what were you saying?" Dudley responded and the chatter continued.

Arthur bent down and retrieved his wand. There, he appeared like a man enslaved. It looked as though he hadn't seen sun or water or food in decades. A scar lined his neck, like a check mark, and his hair was mangled with hardened blood.

"Sir, what are you doing here? What do you want with me?" Harry said. From this position he didn't need magic to get rid of Arthur. He could have stomped on him or kicked him in the stomach and made a mad run for it. But Arthur looked too pathetic. Harry was sick with fear and confusion, unable to move or act, and hardly able to think.

"Harry, I came here to weaken you on behalf of Voldemort." Arthur said at last, rising at last. He was taller than before, but only slightly.

Harry said nothing, his eyes widening.

In the other alleyway, the gang smothered the cigarette and continued on, deciding what to rampage next.

"I can't do it." Arthur whispered urgently, grabbing Harry's shirt and tugging him forth. The light began to fade around them, becoming a smoky shade of blue. The sun was hidden by a tight knot of clouds. Arthur only appeared more ghost-like. "Call me a coward but I cannot hurt a child. I cannot hurt your fate which connects to mine! Maybe you'll understand the agony one day, but until then forget about me."

And then Arthur ran away. That was the last Harry ever saw of Arthur. He would later receive word from him, but that is in the far future.

Roughly at the same time, some days later, as Harry's encounter in the alleyway, Feliciano was royally punished for his act.

Dirty hands grabbed him by the scruff and arms, tossing him into a damp cellar. He rolled on the floor, huffing in pain, and looked at his prosecutors. In each one he saw, in each brown eye, the same eyes of the gypsy girl who he betrayed. But his adventure is another story, one too long and brutal to detail now.

**_Say have you heard from Arthur lately?_**

**_No way, man, he was here and then he wasn't. Last thing he said to me was… Oh what was it?_**

**_Was it anything about where he was going?_**

**_He spoke to me over a year ago last. Do you think he's still sore over what we did? We only gave him the cold shoulder. _**

**_I think—no never mind. It's an asinine thought._**

**_Let me hear it, Francis._**

**_Well, I think he somehow went into a daze when we spoke to him at last. Remember?_**

**_Yeah, I remember. He passed out and next thing we knew he was screaming. _**

**_Must be some curse._**

**_Curses aren't real._**

**_You'd be surprised, Alfred. _**

**_I'm not into this mumbo-jumbo magic stuff, you know. _**

**_Why?_**

**_I was betrayed by it. _**

But the conversation soon came to an end. The two men departed, leaving the room feeling uneasy.

As the tension rose in the Wizarding World, tension rose between the nations. No one seemed to know where Arthur had gone off to. Some had conjectures but most were ascertained that he had hid himself away in his house to hide from the problems. Some even suggested he had died, but the idea was quickly shot down when they noted there hadn't been a great disturbance in England.

When Arthur did come back, a full fourteen years after he left, he looked fuller, happier, and in a way brighter than before. No one ever found out exactly where he had gone, and he refused to answer any questions. The only question he did answer was never spoken out loud. That, he wrote in a letter addressed to Harry Potter.

_Dear Harry Potter,_

_I congratulate you on your achievement not only in the Ministry but in the battle itself. Do not forget it. Lest you find it uncomfortable to think of, speak of it. There is no greater pain than forgetting suffering of the past. I will, however, answer one question._

_The answer is this: I am not a good man. _

end

* * *

_Thank you very much for reading. _

_I hope I did not bore you. _

_I also hope that the meaning of this does not go unnoticed._

_Thank you again_

_-PWW_


End file.
